Unforgettable
by grieverwings
Summary: Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak." Possible rating hike later on - Rorschach-centric.


His insides raged terribly, wreaking havoc on his mind and body. The pulsing thrill that came with his nighttime patrols seemed to be strangling him, drowning him until he sank to the bottom and became just like everyone else that roamed the streets at night… just as evil, just as wrong. He was different from them, the knot-tops and the whores, the muggers and the rapists. He was _good_ – and yet, it was difficult to remember as such. Hatred screamed through his veins, becoming one with his blood until every pump of his heart seemed overbearing.

Finding it difficult to keep his breathing even, he dug into his overcoat and pulled out his journal. Perhaps that would keep his head clear. With a small sigh, he slowly sat down and leaned against the building, dangling his legs from the fire escape. This was one of his favorite spots to come and think, or rest. The old man inside never noticed a thing that went on around him, let alone out his window.

_**Rorschach's Journal – June 30th**__**, 1985**_

_**Saw something new for once – man lured into abandoned lot by another man. Attempted rape, possible mugging and murder. Don't know. Didn't stop to ask. Victim didn't seem to know what was going on. Young, possibly mid-twenties. Are people made that innocent anymore?**_

_**Most would think**_, he scribbled, _**that nothing would surprise me anymore.**_ How strange human nature was – it seemed to keep coming back with new tricks and shows, waiting to perform in dark alleys.

Rorschach heard a radio crackle to life, and almost sensed a heavy body resting against some kind of upholstery. He hated the distraction, cursed it as he continued to log the night's events furiously. The old man, he knew from endless nights of subliminal observation, had some kind of sleeping disorder – he woke every morning at four A.M., soothed himself in some way, and went back to bed. Typically, he simply had a glass of water – possibly took some kind of sleeping pill – and lumbered away, disturbing Rorschach's quiet reverie for only a moment. It was rare that he turned on the television, let alone the radio.

For only a second, he sat still and listened intently as the old man tuned the radio, sorting through unwanted stations until he found whatever it was he was looking for. Heaving to his feet, Rorschach closed his journal and stuffed it back into his pocket. No way could he think with some kind of crooning nonsense blaring in his ears; he would have to find somewhere else… or perhaps just return to his apartment. He wasn't tired, never tired – but his efficiency would drop significantly if he operated on no rest whatsoever.

Reaching for the ladder that would lead him up and out, he heard the man finally settle on a song, grumbling to himself as he settled in a chair again. The music created a quite unfitting background to his turbulent thoughts, and in frustration, he paused with one hand curled around a rung, itching with desire to pop through the window and toss the radio to the streets down below. Yet, he thought, loosening his grip on the ladder slightly, he seemed to know this song… from somewhere.

Rorschach snorted. Impossible. He never listened to music, as a rule – there were more important things to do than sit around and nod your head to a beat. Music almost never accompanied where he went, save for the diner he sometimes frequented, and that could be blocked from thought patterns easily. One did not hear music on the streets, either while parading about holding a sign, or patrolling them, saving people from themselves. There was something, however, about this particular song… a little niggling feeling at the back of his mind, small enough not to be pressing but annoying enough to prove it was there.

The old man croaked along with the song, his dry and grizzled voice overpowered by the strong vocals belting from the radio…

_Unforgettable… That's what you are…_

Of course. That commercial Veidt put out for his perfume… that _Nostalgia_ stench that seemed to suffocate you the instant you stepped out onto the street. He'd seen the television spot at least once. A filthy display of how market research was taking leaps and bounds into understanding just what ploy would convince millions of people to run screaming for the nearest store. Veidt definitely knew how to advertise.

_Like a song of love… that clings to me…_

It was almost amusing, the makeshift duet between whoever was on the radio and the old man. The song, he had to admit, wasn't exactly unpleasant, but the scratchy, strange addition made it almost comedic. Almost. He was Rorschach, or sometimes Rorschach-pretending-to-be-Kovacs, and neither man made jokes – or laughed at them. Regardless of what certain former-partners claimed. Just because they were around each other daily for years hardly gave him the right to…

It was late. He should have been on his way already, instead of standing here listening to some slop on the radio. Nostalgia… right.

Before Rorschach could scurry up the fire escape and onto the roof, shuffling footsteps made him freeze in his tracks. Silently as possible, he threw himself against the building, chest heaving as his blood began to race again. Stupid man couldn't leave him alone and go back to bed… had to make things complicated… would be his fault if he ended up dead… With a creaking of rusty hinges, the old man's window edged noisily open, and the crooner assaulted the night with an increased vengeance. The man's throat and lungs rattled as he deeply inhaled the night air, sighing as though he found it satisfactory. Could he not smell the urine, the filth, the degradation that clung so eagerly to New York's infrastructure?

_And forevermore… That's how you'll stay…_

Bones cracked from beyond the window, possibly from disuse, and from the corner of his eyes, Rorschach saw a grizzled hand flick in and out of the building. From the withdrawing fingers, a thin slip of what looked like paper drifted lazily through the sky, fluttering to the ground five stories below. As the song continued, footsteps shuffled away and far inside the apartment, a door clicked shut. After a moment's silence, nothing happened again – and Rorschach found it safe to breathe. It was stupid of the man to leave the radio on, let alone the window open, but he decided to leave it alone. There were more important things to do than play caretaker to some lonely old man.

Pulling the brim of his fedora a little lower, he quickly leapt up the fire escape and onto the roof, leaving the music and the old man behind. There were better things to do than hang around here until sunup… and if better things were nowhere to be found, he would go back to his hideout, remove his face, and sleep… relax until night came again, and he could perform at maximum efficiency. The song buzzed around his brain, irritatingly lingering to the point that he didn't think it would ever leave. It wasn't… such a bad melody to have hanging around, however. It was almost peaceful… nostalgic, he would say if he had anything to be nostalgic about. Either way, he decided, it didn't matter. It soon would fade from his memory... once the next night started, and a new wealth of scum and filth would occupy his time.

_**AN. **_**I intend this to be, more than likely, a 3-part story. Unlike past stories, I absolutely know where I want this to go, and how it will end, so this may be updated a little more quickly than usual. We shall see. I sincerely hope that I kept Rorschach in character. At first, I tried to incorporate his unusual style into the actual story, rather than just his thoughts or journal, but that became exceedingly difficult… He's a difficult character to portray accurately in the first place, so I hope I at least got a shade of him right. I know, I can't imagine him listening to music for pleasure once in his lifetime, but Nat King Cole's song has such a haunting, lovely quality to it… Everyone has at least one song they wouldn't mind listening to again, even if they are psychopathic vigilantes.**


End file.
